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"The Rubber Plant"

In the dim of an early hallway

a rubber plant keeps its steady shape.

No incense, no vaulted stone —

only the faint drift of last night’s air

and the cupboard settling once.

Its leaves hold a muted sheen,

not bright, not reaching,

simply keeping their place

as if the room leans on that steadiness.

I’ve seen other plants in better light —

the ones set near wide windows,

the ones trimmed for company,

the ones that catch the full run

of a warm afternoon.

But none of them hold the same

quiet, durable measure

this one keeps without asking,

rooted in its corner.

Not the pothos that climbs

whatever it’s given,

not the fern that needs

its careful portion of moisture,

not the aloe that waits

for a hand to remember it —

none of them carry

this plain, unforced bearing

that stays even when the day shifts.

There is something in the way

its weight settles into the pot,

how each leaf keeps its line,

how nothing about it calls for praise.

A kind of grounded clarity,

a way of being that doesn’t falter

when the room grows still

or the light goes thin.

And so I notice it most

in the quiet parts of the house —

when the kettle cools,

when the hallway holds its shape,

when the cupboard gives that small click.

There, the plant stands as it always has,

steady in its corner,

keeping the room from drifting.

.